Fighting Giants
by SauvignonFierce
Summary: Watson comes home to find a bloody Holmes. During his medical examination of the detective, their true feelings are revealed. HolmesxWatson. Reviews are very welcome.


After living with Holmes for what felt like decades, but in reality was only two years, Watson thought he had seen it all. He'd walked in on Holmes standing on his head while trying to figure out how long it takes to lose all feeling in his feet; he'd walked in on multiple explosions, chemical spills and his personal favorite, kitchen fires. He was used to it. What he was not used to, and what he suspected he would never truly be used to, was coming home and finding Holmes slumped on the sofa, bloody and bruised from an evening in the ring.

"Good Lord, Holmes, how big was this man?" He asked, rolling up his sleeves and dabbing the cuts on his friends lip.

"I'd say he had a good two heads on you and was twice as heavy," Holmes responded nonchalantly. Watson shook his head. "Upset at me, old boy?"

"Not upset, just…disappointed." Holmes hissed as Watson pressed the cut above his eyebrow.

"You know how I loathe that word. It makes me feel like a child."

"Well you act like a child," Watson said, ringing the cloth out. Holmes scowled and let the doctor finish up. His lip was split at the side, his eyebrow had been almost cut open, his cheek was bruised terribly, there was an abrasion on his collar bone, but none of his ribs had been broken.

"You were lucky this time," Watson said, standing up and pouring the pink, cloudy water out the window into the street. "Lucky you weren't killed, Holmes. You'll have some nasty bruising on your ribs but it should subside in a week or so."

"Good, there's another fight on Thursday-"

"Holmes no!" Watson protested, standing in front of his friend. He looked down. Holmes was looking up at him with his arm slung over the couch, fingers playing with the tassels of an old throw. His eyes were big and Jesus, had they always been that shade of chocolate brown? Watson diverted his gaze, one hand on his hip, one running through his hair. He sighed audibly. "I just hate it…"

"Hate what?" Holmes asked curiously, as the doctor's pause continued.

"Nothing, just unbutton your shirt so I can listen to your heart beat and make sure you didn't seriously hurt yourself." Holmes complied, unbuttoning the top few buttons.

"I feel fine, Watson. Just a little sore, but that's the norm."

"Well you don't look fine." Watson sat down next to Holmes on the couch, trying to pretend he didn't realize the detective's arm was almost slung around his shoulder. He stuck the ends of the stethoscope in his ears and raised his hand to Holmes's shirt. He'd done this dozens of times before, but it felt different for some reason. His fingers lightly pulled back the white material of his shirt and he let his thumb gently trace his chest momentarily before replacing it with the cold metal of the stethoscope.

Holmes yelped.

"Sorry, forgot." Watson removed it and blew on it lightly, warming up the metal disc. He placed it back on Holmes's heart and glanced up to see his face. Holmes was staring directly at Watson.

"I'm sorry if I upset you," he said. Watson felt his voice reverberate through the stethoscope. "You know fighting's just a release for me."

"I know. I just wish you had another release. One more along the lines of painting, not getting yourself bloodied up by giants." Holmes smiled. "Luckily you have a live in doctor."

"I am lucky," Holmes said quietly. "To have you here, that is."

"What's gotten into you, Holmes? Your heart sounds fine. But you don't sound quite like yourself." He put his stethoscope away and leaned back on the couch, watching his friend curiously.

"The fellow in the ring this evening, he had me on the ground, his knee on my chest- that's what the big bruise is from, and he was just smiling. Normally, it's quite simple to leverage his weight and slip out from under him, but the floor was wet- I think it may have been my blood," Watson winced. "Anyway, I couldn't get my feet steady and I thought he was going to go too far."

"What happened?"

"Well, I ended up simply twisting his arm around until I heard something crack. It seemed to work. But for a second there, I realized I was lucky to have you in my life. Two years ago if I had died on the floor there, nobody would have come looking for me until Mycroft realized I was missing. Now, it would only be a few hours until you knew something was wrong."

Watson was touched. He had never heard Holmes say anything even approaching sentimental, unless he was mocking somebody, usually Watson. But now, sitting on the couch with his collar undone and blood caked on his knuckles, he was baring his soul. Watson felt it rush through his own body, hitting him square in the heart and spreading a warm flush through his bones.

"Holmes," he said quietly. "You know I care about you more than anything else, even if I won't admit it sometimes." Holmes nodded and moved his hand until it was resting on the doctor's neck.

"I just like knowing you're there," he whispered, moving closer. Watson swallowed, hard and flicked his eyes up. they connected with Holmes's brown eyes, and he realized he had always known they were that rich color, but he saw them anew now. He closed to gap between them, pressing his lips to Holmes's. After the initial adjustment of the kiss, they began to move together, Holmes bringing his hands to Watson's waist, Watson running his hands through Holmes's mussed hair.

Watson let out an involuntary raspy moan when Holmes massaged small circles on his thigh as he bit his lip and swiped a wet tongue over the spot. Holmes smiled and Watson could feel it, not just on his lips, but through him.

"I'm always here for you," Watson said, bringing back their conversation. Their foreheads rested together, eyes shut tightly as they clung to each other, forgetting that Holmes was injured.

"I don't want you here. I want you there." Holmes said. Watson opened his eyes, puzzled.

"There? Where's there?"

"Scotland Yard. We have a case." Holmes jumped up and tore his shirt off, replacing it with a "clean" one strewn across his desk.

"A case? You're joking."

"I never joke about a case, dearest Watson."

"Call me John." Holmes paused and pondered the name.

"Shant."

Watson rolled his eyes and limped out the door, hiding the smile on his face.. "Coming, Sherlock?"


End file.
